


Free Fall

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bad Ending, Cages, Captivity, Come as Lube, Hand Feeding, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Sadism, Unwilling Arousal, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Martin’s cage is gilded.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Simon Fairchild
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	Free Fall

Martin’s cage is gilded.

He has the best of everything, Simon tells him, smiling like he’s given him a rare treat. As though he expects Martin to be grateful. It could be worse, Martin knows. The cage he’s in is very large, and has a bed and small desk with notebooks for him to write his poetry. There's even a perch high above his head - Simon's idea of a joke. Martin could get up there, theoretically - could use his hands and feet to climb, his wings for balance. He could sit high above the ground, dangle his feet and look through the bars at the sky and pretend. Sometimes it’s tempting. Martin’s feet haven’t left the ground since he came here. He misses it. Misses flying, the way that the wind sounds in his ears and the feeling of it moving through his wings. They’re useless now, of course – the first thing that Simon did was clip them, taking no chances that Martin might try to escape, and never mind that there is nowhere for him to escape to.

Martin pulls his eyes away from the sky, wings fluttering. Simon will be in soon, he knows. He likes to visit him, likes to pet his wings and tell him how pretty he is, fingers always lingering longest over the jagged, uneven stumps of the feathers that he clipped far too short, admiring his work.

Simon could have clipped them in a way that was pleasing to him, Martin knows. Could have made it so that the clipping wasn't even obvious to an untrained eye. But Simon is vengeful and carries a grudge. He has not forgotten that the first time Martin said no.

The hinges of the cage creak when the door opens. This too, is deliberate. Simon likes the way that Martin tenses when he enters the cage; likes the way that his shoulders draw up and his wings tremble.

“Hello, pet,” Simon says, and Martin isn’t looking at him but he can hear the smile. There’s a small noise as something is set down on the table, and then Simon’s hands are in his wings, stroking the feathers. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes,” Martin says. The worst part is that it’s not entirely a lie.

~****~

Martin backs away from Simon when he sees what he's brought and understands what it is he wants this time. “I don’t want to,” he says. His wings flutter with agitation as he presses himself back against the bars of the cage. He badly wants to fly away but of course he can't, not anymore.  
  
Simon gives him a narrow look, then smiles. "As you wish," he says, and while the words are mild Martin can hear the black anger underneath and he trembles. Simon steps out of the cage and closes it. "Call when you change your mind."  
  
Martin lasts three days. His water dish is empty by that time (he'd balked at that, too, but Simon had left it alone, probably sensing how quickly he'd cave once he really started to get thirsty) and his throat burns with thirst, and he's so hungry that he constantly feels as though there is a fist inside his stomach, slowly squeezing. He takes to lying listlessly in his bed, unable to muster the energy to do anything else. But what makes his mind up is when he spreads his wings and sees several feathers drift to the floor.  
  
He calls for Simon. He half expects him to appear immediately, face wreathed in a gloating smile, but he doesn't appear that day. He doesn't appear the next, either, although Martin's water dish has been filled in the night. He drinks deeply, practically shoving his entire face in the water, no longer caring how it looks or how humiliating it is. He drinks until his belly swells and feels full for the first time in days, and for a little while he is, if not content, at least not miserable. Then the hunger returns, worse than ever. Martin drinks more water, then curls up in his bed with his wings wrapped around him in a poor attempt at comfort, trying to will himself to sleep. It's only when he sleeps that he forgets his situation; his hunger and his bone deep terror that he's going to die in this cage.  
  
Simon comes the next day. He has another plate of food with him; there's roast chicken and mash and a salad. Martin's mouth waters at the sight of all the food, his stomach clenches in helpless, horrible hunger, and when Simon demands that he come to him on his knees Martin can't do anything but obey.  
  
He kneels at Simon's feet and lets him feed him bite by bite. Simon makes him go slowly, says that it is for his own good, but Martin knows that he gets more pleasure out of making him wait than he would out of letting him be ill from eating too fast. Martin can hardly lick Simon's fingers clean and beg so prettily for more if he's vomiting after eating too much too quickly, after all.  
  
While he feeds Martin (everything given by hand, even the mash), Simon strokes his feathers. "I didn't know it was time for your moult," he says, fingers rubbing against the new blood feathers, small dark and so very sensitive.  
  
Martin shivers, eyes fluttering. The new feathers itch, and he's been unable to reach these ones. It feels wonderful to have Simon’s fingers rubbing against them, even though he’d rather have nearly anyone else. "It's early," he says, voice low and slightly slurred with pleasure.  
  
“I see." Simon puts a hand damp with Martin's saliva under his chin, tilting his head up and forcing him to meet his eyes. He smiles. "Don't ever disobey me again," he says, and breaks one of the blood feathers between his fingers.

Martin screams, and jerks, but Simon holds him in place, one hand firm on his shoulder and the other gripping his chin even tighter, keeping Martin’s face tilted up so that he can drink in the pain writ large across it. He holds him there as Martin cries, eyes dark and fixed on his face. Only when the pain has dulled to a steady throb does he let go, allowing Martin to curl in on himself. “That’s a good boy,” he says and pats Martin on the head before he leaves.

~****~

“You've earned a bit of a treat, I think," Simon says. He holds out his hand. "Come along, pretty."  
  
Martin doesn't want to come along, but he's still bears the wound from the last time he didn't do as Simon wanted. The blood feather that he broke is healing, but slowly, and Martin is in no hurry to see what Simon might do if he displeases him again. He's been a model captive since, and the last thing he wants to know is what Simon's idea of a reward is.  
  
He puts his hand in Simon's.  
  
The second he does, the ground disappears from beneath his feet and he's left reeling, tethered only by Simon's hand in his. Martin's wings spread reflexively although of course they're basically useless. Simon laughs and his grip on Martin's fingers loosens, forcing him to redouble his own, clutching at Simon's suddenly slippery hand with a panicky tightness. He has an idea that if Simon lets him go he'll never feel the ground under his feet again.  
  
They land with a thump. Martin immediately tries to drop Simon's hand but now he's the one who tightens his fingers, squeezing Martin's so hard that he feels the bones grind together.  
  
"Come along, pet," Simon tells him, tugging him along. Martin looks around and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.  
  
"No," he says, and tries to back away. "No, I don’t want to, please Simon."  
  
Simon gives him a look dripping with fake concern. "I thought you'd like this," he says. "Surely you miss being able to be so high above everything?"  
  
"I miss my wings," Martin says tightly. Simon laughs and strokes his free hand along Martin's feathers.  
  
"What's to miss? They're right here. I could have taken them completely, you know. But they're so lovely I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Now, stop sulking and come along. Enjoy your treat."  
  
This time Martin allows Simon to pull him to the edge of the building, the implied threat still ringing in his ears. Being unable to fly is awful, but being without his wings at all…he shudders, and Simon smiles at him.  
  
"Cold? Here." he pulls his hand out of Martin's and wraps his arm around him, drawing him into his body. Martin isn't cold, and if he were he could use his wings for warmth - they are still useful for that much - but he doesn't struggle. _Could have taken them completely_ is running on a loop in his head, and he finds it hard to think past it.  
  
If he could, perhaps he would expect the shove.  
  
Martin falls fast, spinning rapidly. His wings open but Simon clipped them too short and they're about as useful as his pinwheeling arms and kicking legs. The terror that fills him is so huge that he can't even scream, and even if he could he's falling too fast to get enough air. He spins, and spins, the sky and the ground interchanging rapidly as he shoots down, and he wants to close his eyes but a perverse part of him needs to see the ground before he hits it, needs to know what his death looks like.  
  
Then the ground disappears completely and he's surrounded by blue. He's still spinning, he can feel it, can hear the air rushing by him and whistling through his useless wings, but his eyes are filled with blue and he knows that this is Simon's doing, that he's keeping him here, and that if wants he can make him fall forever, and Martin can't sob but it feels like his entire body is sobbing, already begging wordlessly for it to end. And still he can't close his eyes. The blue is too beautiful to stop watching, even as it fills him with none-shaking terror.  
  
He doesn’t know when the blue stops eating up his world, when ground and sky separate and become distinct once again. He'll never be sure when Simon caught him and let him land, much more softly than he had on top of the building. He becomes aware that he's stopped spinning only gradually, first registering the sound of his own voice, saying "please" over and over, and then the sensation of two arms around him, holding him tightly. Martin clutches back desperately, tears leaking from his eyes, eyes seeing nothing, begging for something he can't name.  
  
"There, there," Simon says, running a hand over the one of his trembling wings. "I've got you."

~****~

Martin runs his hands over his wings, sliding his fingers through the feathers and gently working the white cases off of the new ones. The new feathers emerge shriveled and wound up; he carefully unravels them and smooths them out, running his fingers along them until they lie straight among the rest. They’re not all ready to come out, but he works methodically through the ones that are and soon enough he has freed all the ones he can reach and can now begin the process of preening in earnest.

He hasn't been doing his due diligence, hasn't been taking care of himself the way that he should be, and it shows. His feathers are dull and several are split, bent in new and interesting ways. They've been bothering him for a while but he'd been sulking, showing petty, pathetic defiance in the only way he could without Simon punishing him for it. Or maybe he'd known that not preening was a punishment all its own, and had been content to allow Martin to cause his own misery. And maybe on some level Martin wanted to punish himself. He'd chosen this, after all. Mostly.  
  
It hadn't all been sulking and bitterness, though. In the days after Simon had thrown him into the Vast he'd sat huddled in the corner of his cage, knees drawn up to his chest and wings curled around him, trying desperately to convince himself that the ground beneath him was real, and that the swooping, falling sensation he was feeling was all in his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he saw blue, and he jerked awake more than once after feeling cruel hands on his back, shoving him into endless free fall with his wings banging against the sides of the cage. He'd broken another blood feather that way, and instead of being upset he'd nearly wept with relief. He'd gripped he bars of his cage with trembling hands, anchoring himself to it and relishing the pain, embracing its reality in a way that he couldn’t accept the reality of the floor beneath him.  
  
After that things had gotten better. He'd been eating the food Simon fed him mechanically, not tasting it or caring to, but now he was actually hungry; he had to stop himself from licking Simon's fingers and he could tell from the shine in Simon's eyes that he knew that, too, somehow, and it pleased him. The pleasure was a surprise to Martin. He would have thought that Simon would prefer him broken.  
  
Brain back in working order, body had also begun to clamor for attention. Not just for food, but for the grooming that he'd been denying himself. The new feathers itched constantly, and Martin could see that several of them were ready to unfurl, small bits of feather poking out of their grayish white cases. Soon it would go from uncomfortable to painful, but now he knew he wouldn’t let it get that far; Martin was no longer in any mood to deny himself the comfort of a good preen.  
  
Now he sighs in pleasure, eyes fluttering as he scratches his nail along the base of one feather and then smooths his fingers along it, straightening it, spreading the oils from his hands evenly from base to tip. He's not very far in to the preen itself - his early molt had been a bad one, and there were are a lot of pinfeather cases to remove, a process that took a very delicate touch, not to mention how badly his wings had fared for being left alone so long - but already he feels better, so much more himself, than he has since Simon had first brought him here.  
  
The pinfeathers he can’t reach itch, but he thinks that if he is very careful about it, he might be able to rub off the cases from the harder to reach feathers on the edge of his desk. It won't be as good as having someone else do it, but he thinks it will serve. He won't be able to preen them he same way he can the others, either, but he'd managed on his own before. First when he was young and his mum refused to look at him, let alone help him preen, and then the time after Tim's death, before Jon - but Martin cuts that thought off almost viciously. He doesn’t want to think about Jon. It will only ruin the small bit of pleasure he's found here.  
  
He's so into what he's doing that doesn't hear the cage door open, doesn't notice Simon standing behind him, watching him work, until suddenly a hand touches him high on one wing, where the hardest to reach feathers are. Martin jerks, but doesn’t try to pull away – he knows well enough what Simon will do to him if he does. As to reward him for his good behavior, Simon keeps his touch gentle. His fingers sift through Martin's feathers, rubbing against the sensitive wing beneath in just the right way, and Martin lets out a soft noise of pleasure even as his body tenses, waiting for the pain.  
  
It doesn't come, and in spite of himself Martin feels his body start to relax, feels himself start to press back into the touches despite knowing that they can - and will - turn cruel at a moment's notice.  
  
Simon doesn't speak, just keeps preening Martin's wings, and Martin forgets to help as the pleasure of someone else's hands in his plumage suffuses his whole body, lulling it into a kind of stupor. His own hands fall away from his feathers and fall to his sides, fingers curling loosely in the duvet. His body remembers this, remembers how it felt to have other hands all over it. Remembers what usually came after, as well. The response is immediate and horrifying; he feels himself grow hard and barely manages to bite back a moan. No, he thinks, and it's true, he doesn't want what his body thinks is coming, not from _Simon_ , who he loathes and fears in equal measure. It's an involuntary response, he knows, but that doesn't make it better. He realizes that more than pressing into Simon's hands, he's started to work his shoulders, wordlessly directing him to where he likes to be touched best, the places that make his body sing, the places that Tim had shown him he liked, that Jon had -  
  
_No_ he thinks again, this time with real panic, and tries to twist himself away from Simon.  
  
"I wouldn't do that," Simon says mildly, and then there is a vicious pain in his back as he digs his nails - sharp, angry nails - into the base of a feather. Martin whimpers. Simon's other hand leaves Martin's plumage to reach between his legs and roughly palm his hard cock. He squeezes. It isn't gentle.  
  
The noise that leaves Martin's mouth isn't exactly a sob, but it's close. "No," he says, and he hates the way his voice sounds, so pleading and desperate. All the strength he'd thought he'd had has been obliterated in a few strokes of far too clever fingers, and he's terrified that it had never truly come back at all. "I don't - you can't -"  
  
"I think you'll find I can," Simon tells him, and Martin can hear the edge of a laugh in his voice, the cruel amusement he's finding in Martin's distress. "I can, I am, and you are going to take it, pet. You're going to take it and beg me for more." He leans forward and runs his tongue up Martin's neck, gentling his hands at the same time, one of them soothing the angry sting in Martin's wing while the other strokes along his cock in a gentle rhythm that has Martin widening his legs and letting a small sound of pleasure escape his mouth before he can stop himself. Simon laughs against his neck. "That's it. You make such sweet noises for me. You want it so badly, don’t you? You want me to make you fly."  
  
At this, Martin's eyes snap open - when had he closed them? - and he begins to struggle in earnest. "No," he says. "No, I don't want to, I don't want -"  
  
Simon sighs. "Well then. The hard way it is." He sounds unutterably pleased about it. Even in his bright white panic Martin knows that this is exactly what he was hoping to cause, and he hates himself for once again giving Simon what he wants.  
  
Simon's fingers close over one of his new blood feathers and squeezes, not hard enough to break it but hard enough to make Martin whine and go still, body tense as a bowstring and vibrating slightly, afraid to move for fear of what those fingers will do if he does.  
  
"That's such a good boy," Simon praises. "You are learning. Now, here's what's going to happen. You are going to remove your trousers and lie face down on the bed. You will hold onto the posts and if you so much as think about disobeying my orders I will pluck you like a chicken. Do you understand?"  
  
Martin shudders, and Simon gives his cock a friendly pat. "Wonderful. Go on, then." He moves back to give Martin room to do as he says, but his hand never leaves his wing, fingers still squeezing Martin's blood feather. It doesn't matter, though. Martin believes him. If he twitches the wrong way, Simon will start plucking. And he will make sure it hurts as much as possible.  
  
Tears fill Martin's eyes and spill down his cheeks as he unfastens and removes his trousers, moving carefully, mindful of where Simon's hand is. Head bowed, he positions himself as Simon told him and raises his hands above his head, holding onto the bedposts with panicky tightness.  
  
Simon makes an approving noise. "Spread these lovely things for me," he says, fingers finally releasing his tortured blood feather and smoothing along his wing. His other hand slips between his thighs. "These, too."  
  
Martin does as bid, closing his eyes tightly against the sting of humiliation, thinking how eager he must look, how willing. That he's giving in so easily shames him. _Can't you at least pretend to fight?_ he thinks, and of course it's Jon's voice he hears, Jon's voice that replaced Martin’s mother's after the first time he'd really lit into him for making some mistake or other. That he'd eventually stopped speaking to Martin that way didn’t seem to matter; the damage had already been done. _Useless, pathetic -_  
  
A hot, wet mouth settles on his wing, right over the blood feather that Simon had been squeezing, and Martin's train of thought stops abruptly as he moans in shocked pleasure. Simon's tongue strokes against the blood feather and Martin cries out again, hips driving into the bed beneath him as the arousal that had mostly gone when Simon had started squeezing him rushes through his body, stronger than before. He's hard so quickly that it makes him dizzy, and he finds he's helpless against the overwhelming pleasure of it, hips rutting and body shaking apart with a suddenness that leaves him reeling. His orgasm rips through him almost painfully, and Martin's mouth falls open and he begs, a litany of please, please, please, hands clutching the posts of his bed so tightly the wood creaks. He's never felt pleasure like this before, never known that he _could_ , and he comes again almost immediately, body writhing in a mix of pleasure and pain.  
  
Simon's mouth moves, finds another place to stroke his tongue, and Martin moans weakly and tries to get away. He can't help it; he's already oversensitive and the pain is beginning to edge out the pleasure completely, but of course that's what Simon wants. He makes a pleased noise around his mouthful and circles his tongue around the base of the feather in his mouth. One of his hands slides under Martin’s body, rubbing up against his sensitive cock. Martin whines and tries to shift away, but Simon follows relentlessly, fingers stroking, and it's only when he then pushes them into his arse that Martin understands that he's been coating them with his come.

Simon doesn't linger. Once he's pushed enough of Martin's come inside him to satisfy he withdraws his fingers. Martin feels his hand moving against him and realizes in a dim way that he's now spreading the last of his come over himself, and something about that pokes at him, tries to get his attention, but he can't focus, can't think. Simon's still mouthing at his body and it's bitingly good, good in spite of (because of) the way it hurts, and all Martin's really capable of is shuddering beneath him and moaning.  
  
Then Simon is pushing inside of him and Martin - there's no other word for it - yowls. Simon's large, too large; his cock feels like it’s splitting him open and Martin tries to yank himself up and away from him, nails digging into the wood, feet kicking. "No," he says, and "don't," and "stop," but of course Simon does not, just keeps working his cock relentlessly into him, body pinning him down. His hands cover Martin's on the bedposts and pull them off, and at last he lifts his mouth from Martin's wing.  
  
"Hold on, pet," he says, and then thrusts home.  
  
Martin tries to scream, but the breath is stolen from his throat as the bed disappears from beneath him and he goes freewheeling into the Vast, body flipping end over end, tethered to nothing but Simon's cock and his hands, which he clutches at desperately. Simon is the devil, however, and he rips his hands out of Martin's grasp, leaving his cock as the only connection Martin has to the earth, and now he doesn't care that it burns where it's stretching him open, doesn't care that he’s too big for it to feel anything but painful. He welcomes it, nearly sobbing with terror; reaches back and gropes for Simon’s hips, trying to shove him in deeper, keep them connected. He hooks his ankles around Simon's legs and pushes back into his body.  
  
"Yes, that's it, don't fight it. Open yourself up. Give in. Take it, take it." And Martin does. Sobbing without voice, without tears, he falls, mind in an ecstasy of terror, and when Simon wrings a third painful orgasm out of his body he's too far in the blue to notice.  
  
At some point the bed returns. Martin can feel it under his body but its presence is not a comfort and never will be again. He knows now that it can disappear at any moment. His mouth is moving, but he can't hear the words. He doesn't know if he's making any sound at all; possibly he isn't, his voice stolen by the fall.  
  
Simon is a heavy weight against his back. His hands are moving over Martin's wings and his cock is still inside of him, still so hard and huge, and Martin doesn't know why he took them out of the freefall before he came, doesn't know anything. He is limp beneath Simon's petting hands, too wrung out to move, barely able to make out the words that Simon's murmuring into his skin.  
  
"Very good," he says, fingers stroking, stroking along Martin’s wings. "I'm very pleased with you, pet. It'll only be three, I think."  
  
_Three what?_ Martin asks soundlessly, but of course he knows, knows without knowing, and his body tries to move, tries to come out of its stupor enough to struggle at least, but Simon is too quick, and the first two feathers are in his hands before Martin's done more than twitch.  
  
Simon settles his mouth over a blood feather again, and Martin screams but nothing comes out as he bites, sending shockwaves of pain along Martin's entire body. There is no pleasure here, only a vast chasm of suffering, and as Martin writhes in helpless pain he feels Simon thrust against him one last time, his loud groan of satisfaction echoing in Martin’s ears long after he’s left him alone in the bed, body a mess of sweat and come and tears, wings and arse throbbing and come leaking slowly down his thighs.

At some point Martin hears the squeak of the cage opening again, and he scrambles off the bed, ignoring the way that his aching body protests the movement, and into the corner. He grips the bars tightly and watches Simon as he enters with wide, wild eyes. His wing – the one that Simon had bitten before leaving – throbs angrily where it is pressed into one of the bars, but he doesn’t care. It is a good reminder of just what Simon will do to him if he lets his guard down for even a second.

Simon gives him a deeply affronted look. “Now, pet, don’t be that way,” he says, his voice tinged with fond exasperation, as though Martin is being irrationally difficult. “Let me take care of you.”

“I think I’ve had enough of your care,” Martin says, voice hoarse and raw. The words scrape against his throat like glass. “Leave me alone.”

Simon shakes his head. “You know I can’t do that,” he says. “If I do you’ll only go on bleeding; is that really what you want?”

Martin doesn’t answer. Part of him wants to say yes, yes that is indeed what he wants, especially if it means that Simon won’t touch him again. That he won’t have to fear that caressing fingers might suddenly bear down in a pinch, or that he’ll lose even more feathers to Simon’s cruelty. The rest of him, however, knows how bad it is to leave the broken feather there. Simon’s right; it won’t stop bleeding until it’s removed, and Martin doesn’t have the means to do it himself. Perhaps Simon will be satisfied with taking it, for now, he thinks, hating that he’s going to give in. Hating that that’s why Simon hasn’t simply come at him like he always does; he wants to watch the despair settle over Martin’s face when he gives in, wants him to feel ashamed of himself. And he does. Oh, he does.

Martin’s hands leave the bars. He takes a small step forward, and Simon smiles.

“Good boy. On the bed with you. Face down.”

Martin shakes his head. “Can’t I just –“

“You can do as I say.” Simon’s smile doesn’t fade. If anything it grows wider, and that scares Martin more than anything. _We both know I’m going to hurt you, and plenty_ , that smile says. _It’s your choice how bad it gets._

Hating himself for capitulating, Martin does as Simon asks, lying face down on the bed. Instinctively, his hands come up and grip the bedposts as he braces himself for the pain.

Simon makes a delighted noise. “Oh, that’s lovely,” he says, purring the words. One of his hands strokes lightly along his wing; it’s more soothing than it has any right to be and Martin hates him so much for knowing that and using it. Hates himself and his stupid body even more for falling for it, for relaxing under that soft touch. Hates himself for the small flare of pleasure he feels at Simon’s praise.

He feels Simon settle on the bed next to him and he tenses up again, waiting for the pain. He’s only lost a few blood feathers in his life – most of them recently – and he knows how badly this is going to hurt, knows that Simon is going to draw it out as much as he can, delighting in the sounds Martin won’t be able to keep from making.

“Shh,” Simon continues to stroke him, his hands not even coming close to the throbbing center of pain where the broken feather is. He slips his fingers under the feathers to rub at the flesh beneath, still so gentle, so soft, that Martin once again feels himself start to relax, his eyelids drooping. He fights it as best he can but so little has felt good recently that he can’t help but give into it. Simon leans over. Martin can feel his breath wash over his unbroken wing seconds before his mouth closes over one of the blood feathers there.

“No,” Martin says, the word a moan. His body bucks and he hears himself start to beg, hands leaving the bedposts to flail behind him an attempt to dislodge Simon’s head. “No, please, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything, don’t –“

Simon hums around the feather in his mouth and catches Martin’s flailing hands, pinning them to the bed. He sucks lightly and Martin’s traitor body immediately pushes into the sensation as pleasure sings along his nerve endings. It doesn’t matter that Simon can bite down at any moment; doesn’t matter that he’s already done so. All that matters is how good it feels. The pleasure is as intense as it was before, nearly incapacitating, and of course Simon knows that. Knows that he can do whatever he likes to Martin if he only kept playing with his body this way. Martin moans again and sinks into the bed as Simon’s mouth continues to move over him, cock growing hard in spite of the pain in his damaged wing, in spite of the blood that he can still feel trickling sluggishly out of the broken blood feather.

Simon releases Martin’s hands as he settles himself on top of him, and Martin curled his fingers into the duvet as Simon’s hands slipped to his wings as well, sliding through the feathers, rubbing. He’ll hate himself later for how easily he parts his legs so Simon can slot between them, for the way he presses himself back into the hard press of Simon’s cock, the feeling of his trousers rubbing up against his naked, sore arse almost as good as the tongue stroking along his wings. Martin moans again, hips beginning to work. There’s a part of him that is disgusted and terrified of how easily he’s giving in, but that part seems very far away when compared with the immediate pleasure in front of him. All that really matters right now is friction and heat and the wet slide of Simon’s mouth.

Simon’s hands slide back down his arms, curing around Martin’s wrists and pressing him into the bed. The weight on him is suddenly heavier, almost too heavy, and Martin makes a soft noise of discomfort, struggling, trying to get some room to breathe. He’s made it too easy for Simon to keep him pinned though and after a moment he subsides, breath coming in short little bursts, all the air that he can get with Simon pressing him down so hard. Simon’s mouth moves to his bad wing, to the damaged feather, and Martin understand what is about to happen too late. “No,” he says, begs, but Simon pays him no mind. His teeth close over the base of the broken feather.

Martin sobs as Simon draws the feather out, unable to help himself. He closed his eyes against the tears but they leak from beneath his lids to soak the pillow beneath him. Inevitably, he begins to hyperventilate, lungs constricting as he tries to take in enough air. Simon goes slowly, drawing it out, and even in his panic Martin can feel how much he is enjoying this; just what Martin’s tears and gasps or air are doing to him. His cock is harder than ever and he’s moving it against Martin’s arse in a slow grind. Martin would like to pretend that he wasn’t getting off on it, too, but his own erection hasn’t flagged at all and his body is working with Simon rather than against, grinding up into him despite everything.

Eventually it’s over. Simon relaxes his hold on Martin’s wrists and the pressure on his chest lets up enough that he can breathe. Martin breathes deep. Already he feels better, wing throbbing but not with the same sick ache as before.

Simon spits the feather to the side and kisses the aching spot, licking briefly at the wound before pulling back. He releases one of Martin’s wrists and uses that hand to turn Martin’s face towards him. Martin goes willingly, eyes shut, and when Simon presses his mouth to Martin’s, tongue running along his lips, Martin opens for him and tastes blood.

Simon kisses him for long moments before pulling away. “You did well,” he says, pride lacing his voice, and Martin shivers, feeling that same awful rush of shameful pleasure at the praise. Simon releases his other hand and squirms it between their bodies; there is the sound of a zip being opened and Martin feels him press hot and hard against him. “You’ve earned this.”

As Simon works himself into Martin’s body the bed once again disappears and both of them fly into nothing; the only thing tethering them to reality are the places where they are joined. They fall together and Martin revels in it; opens his eyes wide and arches into the press of Simon’s massive cock, crying out in mingled joy and terror.

“Yes,” he says, and this time it is Simon who moans.


End file.
